Shorebreak
by Sandrine Shaw
Summary: Perhaps Mike is not the man he thought he was. Or maybe Paul Briggs is just the exception to his every rule. Or: the one where Mike and Briggs hook up the night before Mike leaves for D.C. (Mike/Briggs, spoilers for 1x12 Pawn.)


**Shorebreak**  
by Sandrine Shaw

**shorebreak** (n.) A wave that breaks directly on, or very close to the shore. Often more powerful than a normal beachbreak because the waves shoal and break quickly due to the fast transition from deep to shallow water. More suited for short rides or working on skills such as getting up on the board.

* * *

The mood at the campfire has changed, different now from what it used to be two weeks ago – a month ago – half a year ago, when Mike first came here. The jokes are a little forced, the banter a little sharper, Briggs' smile is a little more fake. He keeps meeting Mike's eyes over the yellow-orange licks of flame and Mike looks back, unblinking.

When the bottles are empty and the air gets chill, they drift back to the house, one by one. Room doors closing, quietly but firmly.

At the end of the day, when the night falls, they're all alone. It doesn't matter how close they are, how much they care for each other, that out there in the field they'd die for one another. Jakes was right. They're not a family. They're barely even friends, just a bunch of misfits tied together by the lie they're living.

If Mike believes that, leaving will be easier.

There's a knock on his door, and Briggs is suddenly in his room, looking like he belongs. Like he never ran, like Mike never had him arrested and brought in.

He stands and takes in Mike's room, tidier now than it's ever been, the empty shelves, the suitcase next to the bed.

"You're really going, huh?"

Mike nods. "Eight sharp tomorrow. Not sure if Johnny will see me to the airport this time. I don't think he's quite forgiven me for being a rat."

He watches Briggs closely when he says that, waiting for a flicker of agreement, a spark of anger, the bitterness of betrayal, but Briggs just offers him a casual shrug.

"You did what you had to do, man. No one is blaming you," he says – and the funny thing is, Mike does believe him. Believes that he never blamed Mike for his investigation, even if he doesn't believe much else Briggs says. It's not just now that it's all over and done with, water under the proverbial bridge – even before, when it looked like Briggs would be going down and Mike was the one who was responsible, Briggs never seemed to hate him for it. Maybe a man like Briggs, who's toed and crossed the line so many times, knows better than to judge others for the choices they make.

Mike leans against the wall, letting his head drop back and staring into the distance. "I don't know, man. I don't think the others agree."

"They'll come around. You're the hero of the day, Mikey. You're the one who killed Jangles, saved Charlie's life, saved me... kinda hard to carry a grudge against you." Briggs walks into his line of sight, standing right in front of him. The way he's backlit by the reading lamp on the nightstand, Mike can't make out the expression on his face, but he hears the smile in his voice. "If anything fails, I can give you a lift."

"Yeah? I thought you didn't do early morning calls unless someone was dying?" _Or you have a crime to cover up_, he mentally adds. Doesn't say it because, why bother?

"I'll make an exception for you," Briggs says.

He leans in and kisses Mike, and Mike should be surprised, should be shocked, should be pulling away. He should be many things that he isn't. He never thought about Briggs that way, simply because he didn't _let himself_ think about it. Briggs was his assignment, his mark, and Mike had a hard enough time being objective about him as it was without bringing things like _attraction_ and _desire_ into the mix. Didn't know how Briggs felt about it, didn't care because it was never going to happen.

Except now his investigation is over and he'll be gone in less than a day, and Briggs is kissing him, and Mike doesn't have a reason to stop him.

Briggs' beard is rough against his cheek and his hands are warm and firm when they slip underneath Mike's shirt, mapping out his body with an odd mixture of tenderness and impatience. He presses closer, close enough that Mike can feel the heat of his body and smell the thick, smokey scent the fire left on his clothes and his skin. Close enough that he can feel the half-hard length of Briggs' cock through his jeans.

He draws in a sharp breath, his arousal curling in the pit of his stomach like a hungry animal demanding to be fed. It wasn't like this with Abby, when he was trying to cling to the only honest thing in a world of lies. When he kissed Paige, it was about comfort and distraction and frustration, and he understands now what she meant when she told him that she wasn't the answer.

He's sure Briggs isn't the answer either; if anything, it's opening a door to a dozen new questions. Kissing him is like standing on the board and watching the wave coming, not sure if the water is going to roll over you and swallow you whole, or if you'll keep on your feet and soar. It's danger and excitement and freedom and need, and an odd kind of desperation that Mike can't explain, like he wants too much and knows he can never have it.

It's harder than it should be when he forces himself to break away, and he has to physically get a few steps of distance between them so he won't be pulled back in right away. He sits down on the bed, his eyes on the floor as he tries to catch his breath. The weight of Briggs' stare is heavy; Mike can feel it like a real physical thing, can feel the way his own body reacts to it with both unease and thrill.

He looks up at Briggs, wishing he could see past the mask he keeps putting on around Mike, around anyone.

"Are you doing this so I will keep quiet?" he asks, because he needs to know. He tells himself that he will put an end to it if the answer is yes, or if Briggs' response feels like a lie. That's why he needs to know now, because if he lets this go on any longer, he isn't sure if he'll still give a fuck about Briggs' reasons.

"Keep quiet about what? I was cleared of all charges, remember." Briggs raises an eyebrow, gives him that _I don't have a clue what you're talking about, kid_ look. It's a look Mike has become too familiar with to buy it anymore.

He laughs humorlessly and runs a hand over his face. Fuck, he's tired. Actually, physically tired, but also tired of all the bullshitting, the way Briggs turns it into a game. It's time someone brought the truth to the table. Mike wishes it didn't have to be him, once again. "Yeah, and you and I both know that you wouldn't have run if you hadn't thought that the recording would have incriminated you in Juan's murder."

"And you think I'm trading sexual favors to cover that up?" Briggs laughs. "Shit, Mikey, if I'd known it was that easy, I would have tried that from the start."

"Don't joke about this."

Something in Mike's voice gets through to Briggs, it seems, or maybe it's the expression on his face that convinces Briggs that this isn't the time to make funny little quips. Mike doesn't know what he looks like, but he certainly feels like he's going to punch Briggs in the face if he hears as much as one more casual brush-off.

When he speaks again, Briggs sounds serious. The lightness in his tone is gone, and so is his smile. Mike would miss it, but it didn't really reach Briggs' eyes before, and he'd rather face an honest scowl than a fake smile.

"What do you want me to say? I didn't murder anyone." Briggs puts the emphasis on the term _murder_, too much emphasis to be incidental, like he trusts Mike to hear the meaning behind it and understand.

Doesn't mean he has to like it. An FBI agent died, and Mike is almost absolutely certain that Briggs killed him, one way or the other. Badillo may have been a paranoid son-of-a-bitch on a witch hunt who was obsessed with putting Briggs away, but that doesn't make it right. Perhaps whatever happened that night justified what Briggs did, but Mike doesn't know that because Briggs _won't tell him_.

"You gonna give me the whole story one day?" He already knows the answer, though.

Briggs shakes his head. "I don't think so. My secrets, my burdens. You don't want them to be yours."

"Shouldn't I be the one to make that decision?" Mike asks, hating the way Briggs spins this like it's _Mike_ he's protecting by keeping his cards close to his chest, like it isn't simply self-preservation and a shitload of trust issues.

Briggs sighs. "Let it rest, Mikey. In twenty-four hours, you'll be three thousand miles away from here and you can wash your hands on all of this."

He steps back into the V of Mike's legs, reaching out to tilt up his face and bringing their mouths together until the hard, angry line of Mike's lips grudgingly softens under the kiss. Mike doesn't mean to let himself be coaxed into responding quite so easily. He likes to think of himself as someone who has stronger morals than that, who can draw a firm line between wrong and right and who'd wash his hands on someone who falls to the wrong side of that line. Perhaps he mistook himself for someone else, though, perhaps he's not the man he thought he was. Or maybe Paul Briggs is just the exception to his every rule.

Briggs pulls impatiently at Mike's shirt, briefly breaking their kiss when he strips it off him, his own shirt following suit. When he pushes Mike backwards until he comes to rest flat on his back on top of the covers with Briggs' body covering him, Mike goes easily, all traces of hesitation and scruples gone. The weight of the other man's body on top of him is oddly comforting, grounding him, and at the same time it's setting every single nerve ending of his skin on fire.

He reaches down to fumble with Briggs' belt and tilts his head up when Briggs starts kissing bruises down his jawline and his neck. He allows his mind to go blissfully blank, just for a little while.

No questions. No accusations. No suspicions. No secrets. No lies.

Not here in this bed, tonight.

Morning comes, as it always, unfailingly does. Mike is up before his alarm goes off. Briggs is still next to him, fast asleep with his face buried in Mike's pillow and his left arm thrown lazily across Mike's stomach.

He's going to miss this. Not just _this_ – Briggs in his bed, which he imagines is potentially every bit as addictive and lethal as the heroin they're trying to keep off the streets, but Mike only just got a tiny little taste of what being with Briggs feels like and it hasn't quite burned itself into each and every cell of his body yet, as it doubtlessly would, given more time. But he'll miss it all. The house. The beach. The thrill of going undercover. Being someone else every day. The surfing. Paige. Johnny. Charlie. Jakes. Trading funny little stories at the campfire. Making fun of Johnny's cooking skills. The stupid, stubborn dog. Briggs, and his secrets and lies and half-truths, and the way he pulls you on to his side even when you know you shouldn't be.

Mike rubs the sleep out of his eyes and carefully extracts himself from underneath Briggs' arm. He thinks about waking Briggs before he goes, but there's not much of a point. They said all that needed to be said last night, both with words and without.

He ends up leaving a note. _Take care of yourself_, it says. _Give me a call if you need my help._

He almost tears it up, because he knows he shouldn't offer. He should be glad that he got to walk away as long as he was still able to without having Briggs' secrets wreck his career and his life. It's stupid and reckless to make an offer that might draw him right back in. _Will_ draw him right back in.

Crumbling the note, he throws it into the bin. Fishes it back out not a minute later, smoothing out the paper and putting it on the pillow next to Briggs' face.

Johnny gives him a lift to the airport after all.

"So, this is goodbye," he says at the check-in.

Mike smiles. "This is goodbye," he confirms.

In his heart, he know it isn't.

End.


End file.
